


peroratio

by cenotaphy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Destiel if you squint - Freeform, Gen or Pre-Slash, Heartbroken Dean, M/M, No Plot, POV Dean, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Post-Season/Series 12, Season/Series 12, Spoilers for Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, not a fix-it fic, short fic, that's coming later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 11:10:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11599404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cenotaphy/pseuds/cenotaphy
Summary: The mud is cold and yielding under his knees, the sky above so overcast that he hadn't been able to see any stars when he'd tipped his head back in despair, searching the heavens for a god, any god, anythingto which he could have pled.





	peroratio

The mud is cold and yielding under his knees, the sky above so overcast that he hadn't been able to see any stars when he'd tipped his head back in despair, searching the heavens for a god, any god, any _thing_ to which he could have pled. Because yes, Dean Winchester would have pled—would _still_ plead, if he could, would scrape in the dirt on his hands and knees, offer his body, his heart, his soul to any creature with the power to bring back the angel now supine on the ground beside him.

If you'd asked him an hour earlier, he would have denied that he'd be willing to do such a thing, and he would have thought he meant it. But that was before he watched Cas's eyes light up like falling stars, before the radiance of grace flooded from Cas's mouth and chest in a way Dean had only seen in his own nightmares. Before Cas's body toppled like a doll, like a felled tree, to reveal the Devil smirking behind him. Now, Dean kneels in the uncaring earth and knows that he would do anything, give anything, for the chance to jump forward and shove Cas out of the way in time.

He reaches out, traces his thumb over Cas's limp hand. The angel's skin is cold, as if he's been dead for hours instead of minutes. Dean stares at the folds in Cas's rumpled trench coat so that he doesn't have to look at the ragged scorch marks spread out over his Cas's shoulders. He'd gotten enough of a look at them already—hadn't been able to look away, in those first few numb moments after it was all over. His mind, blank with disbelief, had warred with the indisputable evidence of those dark smudges.

He realizes that his fingers are tangled in Cas's, and almost immediately has the urge to withdraw them before the angel notices, and then the truth comes crashing in like yet another apocalypse: Cas is never going to notice anything again. Cas is never going to appear at his shoulder, his brow furrowed over some new confusion. Cas is never going to look at Dean with that soft half-smile that doesn't completely spread beyond his eyes. Cas is never going to turn the full blazing power of his gaze, that laser-like focus, on Dean and Dean alone, as if seeing into the very depths of his soul.

All of that. Gone. And Cas—what did Cas have to show for it all? For all that he poured into humanity, for all his faith and loyalty—what did he have at the end of it all, seconds before the light was snuffed out of him? The last thing Dean had said to him—Dean can't remember, even. Something mundane, probably. Or something accusatory.

"I'm so sorry, Cas," he whispers into the empty night.

They'd been dealing with Lucifer and his spawn and the freaking end of days again, of course. It wasn't like they could have taken a break mid-battle for some heartfelt speeches. But before that—and hell, they'd had _years_ before that, hadn't they?—when had he given any _indication_ that he—that he felt—

"Cas, I'm sorr—" His voice cracks on the last word. What does it matter, at this point?

"Dean!" It's Sam's voice, urgent, issuing from the house. Part of Dean wants to ignore it, shut it out along with the rest of the world, because if he never moves from this spot, never lets the flow of time resume, then he'll never have to live in a world without—

" _Dean_!"

The larger part of him, the part that was molded into a soldier from the time he was four years old, the part that knows how to shake off loss and tamp down grief and keep moving and _look after Sammy_ , that part of him hauls him to his feet. He turns away from the body on the ground, towards the house.

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh...that finale was rough, huh?


End file.
